Exclusive Property
by Lady Rinehart
Summary: Draco Malfoy never believed anything could help him get his one desire, until he rips out a page one from an unknown book in Flourish and Blotts. And of course, everything that followed was Potter's fault. More summary inside. DMHP, slash
1. Prologue: Understanding Draco Malfoy

**Title**: Exclusive Property

**Author**: Lady Rinehart

**Email**: lady rinehartyahoo.com

**Rating**: PG Now, R later

**Pairing**: Draco/Harry

**Summary**: Draco Malfoy never believed anything could help him get his one desire, until he rips out a page one from an unknown book in Flourish and Blotts. And of course, everything that followed was Potter's fault. Unfortunately for both boys, the consequences of their actions may be too much for their hearts. Ancient, powerful magic will be released and the fate of two hormonal boys rest where it should—in their own hands.

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_Prologue: Understanding Draco Malfoy_

Many people believe that Draco Malfoy was a spoiled child, growing up with every care, need, and want carried out by his parents, and anyone else that felt the power the Malfoy name commanded. People believed that Draco's parents spent more money on their son than the Ministry spent on all of its departments combined, including the Department of Peculiar Occurrences, which had the largest budget in all of Britain because no one truly knew what the department's responsibilities were and people liked to donate to a cause that sounded grand, even if it was unknown. However, many people were wrong. The case of the matter was that Draco Malfoy was far from spoiled. At least, it was wrong in the sense that most people's opinion of said young man was based upon.

Draco's earliest memory was his birthday, age three. He was standing in the entrance hall of his estate, and it was _his_ estate since his parents each had _their_ own estates that were separate on the expansive Malfoy Family Grounds, being hugged by a rather plump woman whose name he could no longer remember. His mother was standing a few feet away, ordering maids and house elves a like. She seemed to be in a hurry to leave, especially on her son's birthday, but young Draco didn't appear to be sad in the least considering his mother was not staying. Narcissa Malfoy was a beautifully elegant woman, with a commanding personality and a sharp wit. Most men, however, did not like strong willed women who spoke their thoughts and opinions with an authoritative nature, as if they were superior to men or had the entitlement to state such _things_ in the presence of men, even if her beliefs were simply the result of men such as her father and husband. Of course, as the wife of one Lucius Malfoy, she demanded certain respect from the wizarding world, including conservative men from even the purist of Wizarding families; the more modern woman of the era looked down on her and her 'respect' because it was achieved only with the help of a man. This woman was cool, collected and exactly the image of the female head of the Malfoy family should be. Unfortunately for young Draco, this image did not include a loving and indulgent mother. And at the moment, she was only there, not to say a heart-felt goodbye to her only child, but to make sure things were properly taken care of in her absence.

Draco stood there, trapped in the arms of some random nanny. Honestly, he'd had so many, especially for being so young, how was he to know the name of them all? The small child was cringing from the contact, but otherwise looked unconcerned that his mother was leaving. This is why Draco knew that, although this was his first memory, his mother was unreliable in the role of _mother_ and must do things of this nature very often. Draco was accustomed to his mother's traveling schedule and he was fully prepared to say goodbye in the usual fashion and then be whisked off to his room where his etiquette studies would begin for the day. It was nothing new to the child, for his day to begin in such a way, for his mother loved to travel around the world. Draco was also accustomed to days when he only saw his mother at dinner or other meals. She was busy woman, she had told him once. He had taken that statement for face value and never questioned it again. After all, its how it had always been and that was the way he was thought to think.

In Draco's memory, Narcissa would make one final command to a trembling and terrified house elf, slap the small creature on the head for not answering with the speed that she demanded, and would turn to her son. She would walk over and tell the small boy she would be back in a few days and that she wanted him to not disappoint her in his studies. She would then turn quickly, and leave the estate without a glance back. Draco would be then ushered back to his room. Throughout this memory, young Draco felt no grief or unhappiness for the absence of a parent and certainly didn't want for her to come back.

This was how Draco was raised. He'd never spent much time with his parents, except at certain meals or events the family hosted at their mansion. Even then, talk was limited and Draco was often critiqued on his manners at the table or how he acted in the company of guests. The people he spent most of his time with were hired professionals, at least twenty years older than himself, paid to teach him the proper way to behave in civilized company. The teachers changed regularly, so he never became emotionally attached to any of them, which was the main reason he almost never learned their names. He always called them Sir or Ma'am, showing respect without actually giving respect, as he was taught. He was used to being ignored and alone when not being tutored, and as such, he learned to maximize his time when no one was around. He made the most of his solitude by reading books that were not on the instructional agenda, finding hidden passages throughout the house and grounds, and watching people, whether the be servants or guest of his parents, without their knowledge. That was his favorite pass time.

At the age of six, Draco had his first thought that his parents may not want him. He knew that he was small, fragile child who was unlike any other young boy he'd ever met. He was once ridiculed at a party for looking like a girl by another boy, not much older than himself, whose family name was Melifua. He'd hated that boy ever since, even though he knew that he was related to the annoying brat in someway. He'd never spoken to him again, and was often scolded for being rude to his elders by his instructors. However, he refused to speak and thus was punished by his parents. His parents took the side of another child of their own. He understood that his parents were busy, and as such they didn't have time to spend with him, but he felt they should have at least taken his side. Hadn't the other boy been rude to call Draco a girl, he asked. Of course, his father had said, a gleam in his eye, but Malfoy's are still polite to guests. He father had then order him to be locked his room without dinner and that the next week Draco would be unable to leave his room. From then on, Draco knew his parents didn't love him and probably didn't want him as their child. However, he also understood, from his lessons, that the first born of any significant family (and what family is more significant that the Malfoys?) was an heir, and thus his parents was stuck with him, no matter how much of a disappointment he may have been to them.

After that, Draco no longer cared that he spent almost no time with his parents. Before, he'd always looked at the meals as special, even though he was never disappointed when such things were cut short or that he's parents left him alone all the time. He'd still, like most children, cherished the small moment he had. Now, however, he no longer felt the need to be around his parents. This opinion came to him easily, and although he thought it odd a child should think so ill of their parents, he was unconcerned by the turn in his thoughts. After all, he reasoned with himself, it was my parents doing, not mine. So, he enjoyed his small freedom, because he had a feeling that it would not last forever.

Lucius Malfoy began to take a more personal interest in his son, or so it would seem, when Draco turned eight. He hand picked his son's playmates, appearing to the public as a dotting father who only wanted the best to be companions to his son. However, Lucius simply didn't trust his son's judgment on making and keeping acquaintances of the proper status in the community. Who his son associated with reflected upon the parents, his father had told him. Therefore, Draco was forced to spend certain amounts of time with two boys his age, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Draco's opinion was that if this was the _best_ his father could find for him, then the world must be lacking in anyone interesting or intelligent in his own age range. So, he never believed he would have any associates that were worth having as _friends_. And being the type of person he was, knew not to hope for any such person to exist_._

Therefore, Draco was not spoiled, not in the sense that the perceptions of other were based. He got many present on his birthday, he received special treatment when around others his age, and he even revealed in the power he had over others, even adults, but he was not spoiled. Draco knew this power and privilege came from his parents, not out of the kindness of their hearts, but because that was what being a Malfoy was all about. It was understood that he would have the best things and that people would shower him with respect. Outwardly, he showed that he enjoyed such power, and he did enjoy it, even though he knew it could disappear any time his parents deemed it appropriate. That was the reason Draco was not spoiled, because while he did not dislike the power, it was not something he _wanted_ for himself, just something that he was _accustomed_ to receiving.

As stated before, Draco had always liked watching people, seeing how they acted and respond to others. His fascination with people soon turned into a curiousness with all things that he was not supposed to see or have. As such, he obtained a new habit, one that was now, years later, so completely ingrained in his personality and actions that he sometimes was unaware he'd carry it out. He began to pick up objects, regardless of what they were or who they belonged to, and studied them. Often times, there would be people around and, not wanting to share his inspection with others, would take the chosen treasure with him to a place he could examine it in earnest. He almost never returned such items for he found that they were always special it their own unique way and felt the need to keep them. And since no one had ever caught him in the act of stealing, for he knew the term of his latest tradition would be called that by others, he never desired to quit or return _his_ prizes.

It was years later that this particular practice landed Draco in a mess that he was unsure he could survive. At the age of twelve, he'd been in Flourish and Blotts, a book store in Diagon Alley, when he'd torn the page from a book in passing. That page contained knowledge that would later change his life in every way he ever wanted and craved, only to bring about the destruction of his dreams.

Draco had been watching Harry Potter at the time when he ripped the page out, so of course, he claimed all things that followed, whether good or bad, were _Potter's_ fault.

_End Prologue_

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And so our journey begins...

Lady Rinehart


	2. 1: The Boy Who Wanders A Lot

**Title**: Exclusive Property

**Author**: Lady Rinehart

**Email**: ladyrinehartyahoo.com

**Rating**: PG, R in later chapters

**Pairing**: Draco/Harry

**Summary**: Draco Malfoy never believed anything could help him get his one desire, until he rips out a page one from an unknown book in Flourish and Blotts. And of course, everything that followed was Potter's fault. Unfortunately for both boys, the consequences of their actions may be too much for their hearts. Ancient, powerful magic will be released and the fate of two hormonal boys rest where it should—in their own hands. Characters may seem OOC.

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_Chapter 1: The Boy Who Wanders A Lot_

After a quick glance around the dark hallway, Harry Potter slipped his invisibility cloak over his head and left the Gryffindor Common Room, trying to make as little noise as possible. It wouldn't do to have one of the portraits wake up, possibly to alert a faculty member, even if most of the paintings rarely tattled on wandering students. However, Harry didn't want to take the risk. Dumbledore had told him specifically that the danger he was in this year was much greater than in the past simply because the one after him now wanted his death at no costs, including their own capture or death. Therefore, he was to take extra precautions at all times, and although he knew his headmaster was not forbidding him from his nightly walks, the allusion for Harry to stay where he was safe was still hidden in the words.

Shuffling down the corridors of Hogwarts was a practiced art of this particular student. Harry made it a regular occurrence to be out after curfew, even if it meant possible detentions or other punishments. He simply felt the need to roam about, to feel less confined, as he lately felt when in the Gryffindor Tower. The feeling that no one knew he was out and about left him with an incredible sensation of exhilaration, like he was doing something personal and fascinating that nobody was privileged to participate in, even though he was merely taking a stroll. The internment of the daily hours was broken, if only for a short time, when he stepped foot where no one knew he was stepping. It was his own secret journey that was his and his alone, on which he could do as he wished, go where he wanted, and think how he wanted, all without the expectation that someone was looking for him, whether for his own protection or simply because people wanted to be with him. It was his castle at night, and he rather suspected the castle felt the same about him, in some odd fashion.

His feet moved as if compelled by some unknown force, and again it felt as though the castle was urging him in a particular direction, as it had on so many nights before. This was the reason Harry believed the castle deemed him its charge when out at night; the tug or pull was strong and he usually felt it deep inside him, exactly the same way he had felt a pulse go through his chest the moment he saw Hogwarts. The stones called to him as if they expected him to do their bidding, as if they wanted to be the ones protecting the boy. The oppressive nature that generally came with protection was absent when the shielding came from the castle. Although knew it was improbable that the castle was assisting him in such a profound way, Harry couldn't shake the thought from his mind, and before slipping back inside his safe little bed each night, he would whisper his thanks to the castle, only feeling slightly foolish for talking to an inanimate stone building.

The stairs shifted under him, taking him in a direction he'd never been. Harry was probably the only student still at Hogwarts to have traveled almost the entire castle. Sure, others before him, like the Weasley twins, knew each corridor and secret room or passage like the freckles on the backs of their hands. However, he knew for a fact that Fred and George rarely spent their time, when they were still here, doing little else with such knowledge other than playing pranks or sneaking off to Honeydukes to commandeer some snacks for fun later. Dumbledore, or other headmasters of the past, may have tried to see the entire school, inside and out, but he suspected that they just didn't understand the _need_ like he did. He was the only one who had taken the time to see all parts of the castle, to caress each place with his presence, feeding to the idea that the castle very much wanted him there, and he wanted to show his own appreciation by exploring everywhere. The stairs stopped, quietly falling into place, and he continued with his journey. After going down four steps, he changed his direction and went up instead. Again, it was just a random feeling that _obliged_ his change.

The new corridor was as dark as the rest, with only the light from the moon shining through windows every several feet from the right. Harry stopped at one window, leaning on the sill, to figure out where he was based the outside scenery. Squinting, he looked out over the vast grounds of Hogwarts, making out very little in the small amount of glow. His eyes were stinging slightly, the lids feeling heavy in the way they always did when he was awake beyond the hours his body deemed necessary. The only thing he could make out was the circular bailey next to a rather fat, square tower, much shorter that the one he slept in every night. He saw the small, dark flags on the four corners of the tower marking it as Ravenclaw territory. Meaning, he must be somewhere past the library, which would only be a few floors beneath his feet and somewhere near the left wings, under which the Slytherin dormitories lay. Of course knowing _that_ fact, other thoughts over less knowledgeable subjects than the castle's arrangement came to mind.

As he turned away from the arrow loop, a pensive frown formed with the turn of his thoughts. There were not many people who interested Harry Potter, and on some level he knew that sounded extremely snobby, even in his head. But it was true. No one had every really caught his interest, in friendship or romantically or sexually, in a long time. He had loads of friends, had them since he was eleven and was still slightly in the awe that they liked him at all, but since then, he had been limited on the new people he interacted with or spoke to on a regular basis. Sure, every year for the past several years he's been thrown into dangerous situations with at least one new person to drag along. The result was either that the new person was hurt, and therefore shied away from ever being near Harry again, or they were killed, which speaks for itself on how they never spoke to the raven haired Gryffindor again, or they simply left, whether it be because their own schooling was over or because they no longer could stay by his side and be protected. The few that seemed _able_ to stay by him were so disconnected from him at the same time. And he so often felt alone in the middle of people as of late, that _being_ alone comforted him more than he originally imagined.

His thoughts floated around the new subject of a certain someone he wouldn't _mind_ being alone with, and he stopped in front of a large doorway. He placed his hand on the old fashioned doorknob, testing to see if the room was open. Finding the knob steadfast and unmovable, Harry turned to leave, paused, faced the door again, and took out his wand. Whispering a quick unlocking spell, he walked inside the room, closing the door behind him, thinking how unusual it was that the hinges made no noise, as if it someone had recently fixed the squeaking problem that almost all doors in this castle seemed to have. As he shut the door, he released his hold on his invisibility cloak and let it fall on a chair beside the entrance, taking in his new surroundings as he did so.

It was cozy room, slightly bigger than most that he'd come across lately, dressed in dark greens and warm golds. The large furniture looked comfortable, the dark wood blending with the shadows to give the room a mysterious air. The most intriguing thing about the room was the bookshelves that lined two of the walls from floor to ceiling, filed with books of all sizes. Harry briefly wondered why these books weren't in the library, but then brushed that thought aside. A few more books were lying on the large table in front one of the wingback chairs, three candles sitting upon a high side-table next the chair as if to give light. Steeping quickly, Harry's hand pressed against the one of the candles, felling no warmth, but the wicks were still slightly damp from melted wax, signaling their recent use.

Someone's been here in the past few days, he thought suddenly, the notion coming quickly along with apprehension. Who could find this place? Who else was wandering these halls? Would they come here tonight? Had they already been here? Harry sat, unexpectedly exhausted, in the chair. Sighing, he reached up to take his glasses off so that he could rub at his weary eyes. He didn't know what he would do if confronted with another at this time. After all, this was a time when all thoughts were for himself and someone interrupting would throw him off balance, he was sure. Once again, he felt disappointment knowing that the Marauders Map was not with him.

There was no use wondering, though, if such a person was going to show. Most likely, it was a student that used this room for whatever reason, and if they found him, they would not tell any professor of their discovery for it would expose themselves for being out after dark. Harry sighed again, letting his thoughts drift back to earlier reflections.

Harry's interest had not been captured by anyone recently, though he found himself more willing to look and admire the one who _had_ held his interest for so very long. At the age of eleven, Harry had been thrust into a new, exciting world that welcomed him with open arms, for the most part. And as he had been exploring this world, he'd come across something that dimmed his hopes a little that he would escape the torment of his aunt, uncle, and cousin.

Draco Malfoy had been the second person in the wizarding world that Harry had really ever been introduced to who he still saw daily. Hagrid had been the first, of course, being the one who had rescued him from the small shack on that rock that his uncle had tried to hide him so he wouldn't receive his Hogwarts' letter. He's met a few others, briefly, before entering Diagon Alley, but he barely remembered any of those meetings. The most important after Hagrid had been in the robes shop.

Although naturally shy and repressed from being locked up most of his life, Harry was unusually open and trusting, and only slightly wary of new people. Nevertheless, he had disliked Draco from the start. The minute the boy opened his mouth, Harry had been so strongly reminded of his cousin, that he had formed judgments on the silver haired youth instantly. He was sorry to say that at the time, the judgments were unfair, and he had felt bad about thinking such things without knowing the boy better. However, when he saw and talked to Draco for a second time on the Hogwarts express, he believed his quick assessment had been true. The Slytherin-to-be was a spoiled, snotty brat who believed himself better than others. Harry dislike for the boy escalated after that, and the two became enemies swiftly.

At the beginning of sixth year, though, Draco Malfoy had been anything but a brat. In actuality, he'd done nothing to merit a bad name or thought in so long, Harry was starting to worry for the other boy. Harry was secretly concerned with the mood shift, and although the silent treatment he was giving Harry and his friends recently was better than the bitter words and fights, Harry missed the Slytherin's attention. And although he suspected that the shift may be due to the imprisonment of Draco's father at the end of fifth year, Harry was unable to guarantee that.

Admitting that the attention he received from the blond boy was missed to himself, at first, was a difficult thing to do. Having a fondness for the fact that your enemy only ever got riled because of you was not something that he should be feeling, especially considering who this particular enemy's family was. However, despite all such arguments against the notion, Harry found himself wanting to talk to his one-time-school-nemesis, and much more if he was truly honest with himself. He wasn't shocked that he found a boy appealing, that wasn't an issue with him at all. Harry reasoned that he simply liked beautiful things, whether it was outward or inward beauty, and if anything could be said about Draco it was that he was breathtaking. As of late, Harry had been wondering if such beautiful characteristics lay beneath the boy's skin as well.

All through sixth year, Harry had been hopelessly distracted by the blond, who was completely unaware that the Golden Boy of Hogwarts was even interested in him. Harry had always been distracted by Draco, and if he was completely truthful on the subject, he had always found Draco interesting and attractive. He couldn't pinpoint an exact time when he began to admire his enemy, but he knew it was less than a month into the sixth school year that he acknowledged that such feeling existed. And ever since, Harry found it difficult to focus on any thing but that knowledge. This of course was a dangerous thing, considering it was that year that Harry had faced Voldemort for the last time and come out victorious.

It was now two weeks till Halloween, the first celebration for Harry's seventh year, and the first holiday that the school was able to rejoice in without the distraction of Voldemort's influence hanging over everything. Many of the Dark Lord's followers remained lose and on the run from authorities, one in particular that was especially dangerous, but the mood for the school year was considerably lighter, and for that Harry was happy, even though he was still in danger.

So Draco was an enigma to Harry now. It was common knowledge that Draco had refused the Dar Mark sometime in his sixth year and that he even had a part in the defeat of the Death Eaters, though the reasons were unknown. Yet, the young man still refused to be on 'friendly' terms with the Gryffindors and others that were of the side of the light, and for the most part, people pretty much ignored his presence as much as possible, which was not an easy task considering he was Head Boy. Draco was still considered by many, particularly the Slytherins who had not turned the way of their parents, the undisputed Prince of Slytherin and a powerful man that demanded respect.

Oh, but how Harry wanted to know Draco better. He'd dreamed of the other boy for so long, and had felt ashamed to be thinking about such a rude, arrogant person who had only ever said nasty things to him and his friends in such a way. Now that Draco had reflected to the side of light, Harry no longer felt shame when thinking of the boy. After all, if he would willingly put himself out there to switch sides and try to change his ways, then Harry believed there must be some good there that he could explore if only given the change.

"That's hopeless," he thought out load. Even if Draco had changed for the better, he would still never want to get close to him. He doubted the hate and disgust that Draco had shown toward him could be faked so well. It was a lost cause, he knew.

Harry stretched his arms up, letting them fall to rest slightly behind his head. He glanced around the room and smiled slightly in the dim light of the moon. It seemed even the room fit his thoughts, the green of the chairs and the sliver moonbeams reminding Harry of his current interest. He was suddenly struck with an idea, and moving his arms so that he could reach the table in front of him, he shuffled the books around looking for something. Finding a small, black quill resting under some parchment, he grinned. He dipped the quill in the small ink well he'd seen early resting on the corner of the table, testing in on his skin to make sure it worked. Before he become too focused on how the ink looked on his skin (which was a favorite hobby of his), he began to write on one of the scrape pieces of parchment. Stopping only once to think over his words, Harry left a note for the room's visitor to find. And even if the person never returned, there was no harm in leaving the words behind just in case.

Standing up, his back muscles complaining from changing positions after so long, Harry noticed the moon was close to the tops of the tree of the Forbidden Forest, meaning that dawn would be here in a few short hours. Harry cursed softly, pocketing the quill before rapidly making his way towards the door. He pulled his cloak over himself, slipped out the door, and whispered a weak locking spell on the knob. He crept along the hallways to the stairs, trusting them to move to where he needed to be. In a less than ten minutes, a much shorter time it took for him to find the room, he was pushing the curtains closed around his bed.

Making sure the curtain were secure, he laid his head on his crimson pillow. "Thanks," he mumbled before closing his eyes, knowing the intended receiver of the gratitude would understand. He was asleep within minutes, his dreams drifting back over his latest stroll and how much more interesting it would have been to encounter the boy who had occupied his almost every thought that night.

A small smile appeared, and Harry sighed softly, content in his dream world where his fondest wishes came true.

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Far away from the sleeping Gryffindor, pale hands reached for some parchment he didn't remember writing on. Sitting in his favorite chair, the boy skimmed the page, a flush appearing on his cheeks, knowing who had sat in this chair not long ago. Although the note wasn't signed, there was no doubt in his mind whose writing this was.

"Circe, Potter, can't you afford your own quills?" He let the paper flutter to the tabletop, and stared dazedly out the window.

_Dear Whom It May Concern (which may be nobody),_

_Hello, I wondered upon this room in one of my nightly walks and stayed here for a while, thinking. I thank whoever's keeping this lovely room up, for I easily felt comfortable here and would like to visit again, if it's not too much trouble. Of course, if nobody is reading this letter (and I'll feel like a fool if there isn't), then I guess it's a moot point, but if this is someone's secret place, I rather feel like I barged in without permission. Therefore, I humbly ask forgiveness for intruding. However, I will be back in two nights time, to see if I have a reply, or perhaps to meet the other mysterious explorer of Hogwarts. I'm not sure what else to say, other than I hope that whoever the person reading this is not a teacher or a git, or both combined, as is the case of a few of the professors here (I'm sure you know who I'm talking about.)_

_Earnestly, _

_One Night Crawler to Another_

_PS. I stole your quill, sorry. It just wrote so beautifully on my skin, I couldn't resist._

"Damn right you barged in…" Draco whispered. "The story of my life…"

_End Chapter 1_

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AN: I'm hoping not all chapters are as short as the first few, since such of the background of the characters has to be covered early on. And don't worry, more dialogue will come.

Thanks for reading,

Lady Rinehart


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